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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, 

Cliap._..._._. Copyright No. 

Sheif___._.__8S'5' 



UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 




/j^ IQI 





STRAY LEAVES FROM 

A LARKER'S LOG. 



WALTER M. ROGERS. 

J* 



Printed for private circulation only. 



ILLUSTRATED. 



BOSTON, MASS.: 
1897. 




TWO COPIES RECEIVED 



V 



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Copyrighted 1897, 
By Walter M. Rogers. 



ENGRAVING AND PRINTING 

REPUBLICAN PRESS ASSOCIATION. 
CONCORD, N. H. 



fr/ 



" My eyes are dim with childish tears, 

My heart is idly stirred, — 
For the same sound is in my ears 

Which in those days I heard." 

— Wordsworth. 



" In spite of criticising elves, 
Those who would make us feel 
Must feel themselves." 



PREFACE. 



I dedicate this little volume to my dear children, 

WALTER BYRON ROGERS, 
JOHN ALBERT ROGERS. 

With diffidence and hesitation I allow these vagaries of my 
brain to be perpetuated in cold and critical type, knowing full 
well that they hardly reach the dignity of poems, but may be 
classed as rhymes. They were not written for publication, 
or for the public eye, no effort or prolonged care having been 
expended on them, — this may be self-evident, — but they have 
proved a pleasure and pastime to me, and in coming years 
may serve as a kindly memory of one who loved his boys. 
Your affectionate father, 

WALTER M. ROGERS. 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

The Home of My Childhood Revisited .... 3 

Childhood's Hour 6 

Retrospection ... - 8 

Merry Christmas 10 

A Mother to her Baby Boy 12 

The Return 14 

To my Brother on the Fiftieth Anniversary of his 

Wedding 16 

Human Life 17 

"Trinity Churchyard " 19 

Bangor and Aroostook Railroad 22 

To my First-Born 25 

Vermont's Deserted Farms 27 

Christmas, 1895 3° 

The Bachelor's New Year's Night .... 31 

Lines Indited in a Young Lady's Album ... 32 

A Poem 33 

Cliftondale 36 

A Bachelor's Outing 38 

Sage Cheese-ings 41 



VIU CONTENTS. 

Three Pictures 43 

The Dying Year 45 

A Wifely Token 47 

The Potter's Field 48 

To a Young Lady 50 

The Deserted Farm 51 

Save the Forests 53 

In Memoriam 57 

An Acknowledgment 58 

The Last of his Family ....... 59 

The Night Before Christmas — 1894 . . . 6[ 

A Protest 62 

Idyl 64 

From an Album Leaf 65 

Babcock's Whistle 66 

The Roxbury Horse Guard 67 

Written in Lottie Owen's Album 71 

An Autumn Picture 72 

Valentine . . 74 

The Lovers' Ride 75 

To my Fair Cousin Susan 75 

To the Stag Club . 77 

My Boys 79 

To my Friend on his Fiftieth Anniversary ... So 
Childhood's Charms ...... .81 

A Thought 83 



Stray Leaves from a Larker's Log. 



Stray Leaves from a Larker's Log. 



THE HOME OF MY CHILDHOOD 
REVISITED. 

Back to my childhood's home once more, 

My wandering footsteps stray. 
While memory, busy with her store, 

Recalls that happier day. 
The scene which bounds my vision here, 

Was once my circling world, 
This spot, of all the earth most dear, 

Where life's first joys unfurled. 

These halls, whose echoing sounds were filled 

With love's full, generous store, 
And where my heart with rapture thrilled, 

Alas as now no more. 
October's crimson banners wave 

The same o'er hill and glen ; 
The river's peaceful waters lave 

The shores I wandered then. 



STRAY LEAVES FROM A LARKER S LOG. 

Tlie murmuring brook, through grove and bower 

Pursues its winding way, 
Unchanged as when in boyhood's hour 

I loved its banks to stray ; 
But sadly changed my heart appears. 

As now this scene recalls 
Each look and tone of bygone years. 

Each nook within these walls. 

Stand still, my steeds, for, thronging fast, 

File after file they come, 
The noiseless spectres of the past, 

Whose voices now are dumb ; 
And whispering breezes call the roll 

Of fond ones, good and true, 
As mirrored in my inmost soul 

They pass in sad review. 

Through yonder sash I seem to see 

My mother's face again, 
And hear once more, with ecstacy, 

Her rap upon the pane ; 
That chamber's sacred memories stand 

Engraven on my soul, 
And will until, at God's command, 

The heavens together roll. 

There first her gentle voice of prayer 

Broke on my childish ear, 
And now, through years of sin and care, 

It echoes round me here : 



THE HOME OF MV CHILDHOOD REVISITED. 

Alas ! my heart, of what avail 

Were all those prayers and tears, 
If, in their eloquence, they fail 

To gild my passing years? 

Life's spring has flown ; its summer sun 

On autumn's tints is shed. 
The sands of life more swiftly run, 

And youth's bright hopes have fled : 
But lingering still in memory's cell. 

Sweet dreams of childhood's day 
Come, like the sunshine, to dispel 

The shadows round my way. 

And ever thus, where'er 1 roam. 

Let memory's vestal fire. 
Burn brighter round my childhood's home. 

And gild my funeral pyre; 
For never from my inmost heart 

Can time its image blot ; 
Let memories of all else depart 

Ere home, sweet home's forgot. 

Farewell, thou scene of youthful joy, 

Where life's first dream began ; 
Oh, that the hopes which charmed the boy 

Might still console the man ! 
Farewell again, O home of youth. 

Once more my sail unfurled ; 
Adieu, ye shades of love and truth ; 

I seek the heartless world. 



STRAY LEAVES FROM A LARKER S I,()G. 

CHILDHOOD'S HOUR. 

I have two boys, two beautiful boys, 

And they are my soul's delight, 
My heart is swayed by their griefs and joys 

From earliest morn till night. 

My dreams are rife with loveliest hues 

To be woven deep within 
The warp and woof of the good they choose 

To keep their souls from sin. 

And when each night, to their bed consigned, 

By a mother's loving hand, 
Their childish prattle with prayer combined 

In reverence bids me stand. 

In sweetest tones that an angel throng 

Might pause and list to hear, 
Their musical voices join in song 

As if heaven indeed were near. 

The prayer that my own dear mother taught. 

By my beautiful boys is said, 
And, "I lay me down to sleep" is fraught 

With memories of the dead. 

" I pray the Lord my soul to keep" 
Brings childhood's hou" once more. 

And tears to eyes unused to weep, 
And a voice from the other shore. 






JACK. 



u 



I. m\ 



WALTER. 



CHILDHOODS HOUR. ^ 

" If I should die before I wake" 

Comes soft on the listening air, 
■• I pray the Lord my soul to take,'* 

And this is their nightly prayer. 

'- God bless you, Papa and Mamma dear ! '" 

By each in turn is said, 
" Good-night !" " Good-night! '' is the last we hear 

As they " cuddle doon " in bed. 

They close their weary eyes in sleep, 

Untrammeled by earthly cares ; 
'* I pray the Lord their souls to keep," 

As I echo again their prayers. 

Oh I when on my dim and closing eyes 

This earth is fading away. 
May those loving tones around me rise 

Like a sunsefs parting ray. 

For the sweetest picture my hour-glass sands 

Unveil in this world of care 
Is my beautiful boys, with folded hands, 

Lisping their baby prayer. 



STRAY LEAVES FROM A LARKEk'S LOG. 

RETROSPECTION. 

How oft will memory fondly turn 

To childhood's happy hours, 
While, Phoenix-like, its ashes burn, 

Renewing all its powers. 
Each hill, and stream, and shady grove. 

Are haunts of bygone days, 
Sacred as Meccas of its love, 

To which the pilgrim strays. 

And hurrying in, like gathering clouds. 

Before the impending storm, 
The loved ones, which the past enshrouds. 

In memory's chambers form ; 
And far in retrospection's maze 

Like mirage on the foam, 
Rare pictures open to my gaze 

Of childhood's happy home. 

My musing fancy strays once more 

Within that dear domain, 
And light and shadow fleck the floor. 

Like mingled joy and pain ; 
The maples' waving branches fling 

Their shadows on the wall. 
And sweet- toned birds on joyous wing 

To mates responsive call. 

Again I see my mother's form. 

As when, in happier years, 
'Mid fortune's smiles, 'mid sorrow's storm. 

She shared our joys and tears. 



RETROSPECTION. 

Again the music of her voice 

Floats on the dreamy air ; 
I hear " the chapter of her choice,"" 

Her pleading tones of prayer. 

Beseeching God to guard and guide 

Her loved ones, lest they stray 
In blindness of their human pride 

From wisdom's pleasant way. 
The grave has closed o'er many a year, 

Yet still that music rings. 
And to my eyelid starts the tear 

That faithful memory brings. 

Alas ! that only fancy's dream 

Regilds with lessening light 
Remembered joys, that ever seem 

Still fading from our sight. 
Illusion vain ! Ah, nevermore 

Shall cluster round that hearth 
The joyous beings that of yore 

Filled all its halls with mirth. 

The seasons in their annual round 

Renew their vanished charms, 
And Springtime, loveliest, still is found 

Released from Winter's arms. 
So Autumn, hastening to decay, 

Resplendent, yields his reign, 
Content that Nature's circling day 

Shall crown him king again. 



STRAY LEAVES FROM A LARKER S LOC 

Hut not to man shall time restore 

His glory, youth, and power; 
Once fled, life's morn returns no more. 

His spring is childhood's hour. 
When summers sunny days are gone. 

So bright, so fair, and brief. 
The autumn of decay comes on 

With " sere and yellow leaf/' 

The snows of age unmelting fall, 

Life's winter ends the scene, 
And passed away beyond recall 

The joys that once have been. 
And thus the dreams of all the years 

Through memory's chambers roam 
Till death, the twin of sleep, appears 

And calls the dreamer home. 



MERRY CHRISTMAS. 

A Poem Written for a Christmas Gatherin(; at 
Plymouth. 

Old Santa Claus at Christmas time 

Puts on a night express. 
And just before the midnight chime 

He dons his traveling dress. 

All wrapped in furs from top to toe. 

He mounts upon his box ; 
With swift reindeer that spurn the snow ; 

He heeds not bolts nor locks. 



' MERRY CHRISTMAS. 

But clambering lightly o'er the roof. 

He down the chimney glides ; 
His clothing must be fire-proof 

To take such dangerous slides. 

() merry, merry Santa Claus, 

As, bouncing down the flue. 
Regardless of all social laws. 

You search each chamber through, 

Until at last you find a miss 

You would not miss to find. 
1 fear you sometimes steal a kiss. 

Though stealing pains your mind. 

1 wonder how he finds the way 

To all the favored beds, 
Where dreams of " Merry Christmas'' day 

Plit through the sleeping heads. 
j- 
1 wonder if he ever makes 

An error in his work — 
So many packages he takes 

To scatter in the murk. 

With fleet reindeer, that mock at time, 

He compa.sses the earth. 
Bearing " Good-will " to every clime, 

To mark the Christ-child's birth. 



J 2 STRAY LEAVES FROM A LARKER S LOG 

So listen for the tinkling bells, 
When coming down the ridge 

From Holderness o'er hills and dells 
Across the covered bridge. 

Along Main street the prancing team 
Comes gliding o'er the snow ; 

Electrics cast their generous gleam 
To aid the passing show. 

And now our glorious Christmas tree 

Will yield enough for all. 
A " Merry Christmas " let it be ; 

Now, open up the ball. 



A MOTHER TO HER BABY liOY. 

My blue-eyed darling boy ! 

My heart-strings round you cling, 
And happiness, without alloy, 

Is mine, while thus I sing. 

To thee, my last fond thought 
Is turned, ere slumber's chain. 

With restful silence fraught, 
Is linked o'er heart and brain. 

In waking hours of night. 

For thee my heart still yearns. 

As when in morn's first light 
Its vestal fire still burns. 




Mv blue-eved darlins: bov." 



A MOTHER TO HER BABY BOY. 

That sweet, dear face of thine. 

So pure and undefiled, 
When smiling back to mine 

Recalls the "angel child/' 

On Bethlehem's starlit plain, 

Within a manger born, 
The "Christ-child " not in vain 

Came on that blushing morn. 

Judean shepherds came 

To hail the heaven-born child, 
To spread abroad his fame 

All heaven and Nature smiled. 

God's angels hovered near, 
To guard his sacred head. 

And songs of joy and cheer 
Rang round his lowly bed. 

Thus for my darling child, 
My nightly prayer ascends. 

That pure and undefiled, 

His truth with virtue blends. 

That God from heaven looks down, 
To bless his childish grace, 

And hovering angels crown 
With joy his smiling face. 



F4 SFRAY LKAVKS KKOM A LAKKEK S LOG. 

THE RETURN. 

" * Hast thou come with the heart of thy childliood back ? 
The free, the pure, the kind ? ' 
So murmured tlie trees in my homeward track, 
As they phiyed to the mountain wind." — Hemans. 

A happy youth, in life's bright morning hour, 
Strayed from his joyous childhood's mountain liome, 
A mother's and a sister's love his only dower, 
Thenceforth a wanderer o'er the earth to roam. 

Long time homesickness of the heart hung o'er him. 
And sad home voices came on every breeze, 
One lovely picture constant rose before him — 
His childhood's home among the whispering trees. 

Sweet visions of the happy past, in dreams returning 
f^efed the quenchless fire of boyish love, 
Only to waken, with devoted, tireless yearning. 
Longings to seek that ark of refuge, like the dove. 

Through tear-dimmed eyes he sees as in a vision. 
Warm in the brightness of the sunbeam's track, 
Mother and sister, in that home Elysian, 
Whose low, sweet voices gently call him back. 

But time, like the famed bird of Indian story, 
Assuages griefs that seemed too great to bear, 
With soothing pinion fans the wound so gory 
Her own remorseless beak inflicted there. 



THK RKlUkN. 

So faint, and fainter grew that home impression. 
As from the deck one sees receding shore, 
And turns to other scenes, to hide the sad procession 
Of vanished joys, that come, alas ! no more. 

Time rolled with ever-hurrying fleetness. 
Bearing Nepenthe on its restless stream. 
Yet never from his heart could drown the' sweetness 
Exhaled in fragrance from his boyhoods dream. 

And now, with snow-flecked locks again returning 
To the old paths his feet in childhood trod. 
The altar fires of home no longer burning. 
His loved ones sleeping silent 'neath the sod, 

His stricken soul finds no responsive greeting 
To its low, mournful roll-call of despair ; 
No throbbing heart's anticipated joy at meeting, 
With answering echo, wakes the silent air. 

And here, at last, we leave him with his sorrow. 
Welcome, indeed, oblivion's Lethean stream, 
Upon whose shadowy wave there dawns no morrow, 
No sad returning to that childhood's dream. 



1 6 STRAY LEAVES FROM A LARKER's LOG. 



TO MY BROTHER ON THE FIFTIETH ANNI- 
VERSARY OF HIS WEDDING. 

[A poem read at the golden wedding of John P. Rogers, son of 
John and Nancy Rogers, of Plymouth, N. H., formerly a citizen of 
the same place, but now rei>iding in Boston, Mass.) 

My brother dear, whose mortal span 

Outruns the allotted age of man, 
We gather at your board to-night 

While Time's gray mile-stones mark its flight. 

Through vistas of the vanished years. 
Sunshine and shadow, hopes and fears, 

Alternate in the passing show 
Of half a century's onward flow. 

We greet you here with loving hearts 

And loyalty which time imparts; 
While memory's reproducing power 

Recalls again your nuptial hour. 

Fifty years ! how long it seems ! 

Shadowy as the land of dreams. 
The scythe of Time has cropped the flowers 

Whose fragrance filled those earlier hours. 

Yet memory treasures to the last 
'* The raked-up ashes of the past," 

As round the broken vase and vine 
The lingering rose scents still entwine. 




JOHN PRENTISS ROGERS. 



HUMAN LIFE. 

The plowshare passes not in vain 

Through soil which later yields its grain. 

Nor vainly human hearts must share 
The furrowing plow of earthly care. 

In closer bonds our hearts are tied. 
As Time's swift currents onward glide; 

Our souls in deeper love shall blend, 
Till life's last mile-stone marks its end. 



^7 



HUMAN LIFE. 

" What shadows we are ; 
What shadows we pursue." 

Of life and death, "from cradle to the grave," 
The summing up of all our joys and woes, 

From Nature's mandate surely naught can save. 
While Time's fleet footstep ever onward goes. 

Youth, with its visions brief, and bright and fair. 

Is gone ere yet the noonday sun is high. 
And gathering age, bowed down with earthly care, 
Watches the westering sunlight of its sky. 

"To-day man's clothed in gold and silver bright, 
Wrapped in his shroud before to-morrow night.' 

Of what avail is then this earthly race, 

This short-lived journey to our certain doom ? 

A moment's sunshine scarcely lights the face, 

Ere sorrow's shroud presents its darkening gloom. 



1 8 STRAY LEAVES FROM A LARKER's LOG. 

Past generations all forgotten lie, 

And yet the busy world moves on the same. 
While Nature's edict — " All are born to die," 
Gives but a fleeting joy to earthly fame. 
'♦ So generations in their course decay. 
So flourish these, when those have past away." 

And earthly friendships, glory, wealth, and power. 

Fade like the morning dew before the sun, 
The pleasing pageant of the passing hour 

So swiftly gone, and life's brief play is done. 

To rich and poor, to high and lowly born 

Alike, the horseman pale his summons sends; 
All seasons are his own ; or night, or morn. 
He beckons, and the tragic story ends. 

♦'Pale death with equal foot strikes wide the door 
Of royal halls and hovels of the poor." 

And thus the years go on, and all of life 

Is but the rushing stream that bears us on. 
Struggling and whirling in the short-lived strife. 

Ending at last in blank oblivion. 
Places that knew us once, no more will know 

Our echoing footsteps, or familiar voice, 
Back to our nothingness again to go, 

**Dust unto dust " though not of mortal choice, 
The pomp and heraldry of wealth and pride and power 

Cannot delay that last inevitable hour. 



"TRINITY CHURCHYARD." 

'♦ Say, then, how poor and frail, and little worth. 
The glittering toys of life that lure us here,-' 

Visions and dreams, alas ! and born of earth, 
They glow with meteor light, then disappear. 

Visions and dreams that death at last must break, 
Yielding but momentary pain or joy. 

Like varying fancies when we sleep, and wake, — 
To find that happiness with sorrow makes alloy ; 

And thus the stream of time will onward sweep. 
And bring at last that one long, dreamless sleep. 



-TRINITY CHURCHYARD," 
(Near Plymouth, N. H.) 

Near to the quiet country town 

Where first I drew my breath. 
Stands " Trinity Chapel," old and brown. 

On the field of " the reaper Death." 
Undisturbed by the village din. 

Silent it stands and lone. 
While " listening silence " reigns within 

On undisputed throne. 

On a sunny, summer. Sabbath morn. 

Beneath whose azure sky 
The dew gleamed bright on the tasseled corn 

As the tear in beauty's eye, 



20 STRAY LEAVES FROM A LARKER S LOG. 

I turned my steeds through the olden bridge 

That spans the river's bed, 
Across the meadow and up the ridge, 

To that city of the dead. 

The morning breeze was hushed and still 

The hills and vales along, 
Save murmur of the rippling rill. 

Or winged warbler's song. 
Naught else disturbed the calm repose 

Save the requiem of the pines, 
As the gentle zephyrs fell and rose 

Along their quivering lines. 

The quaint old chapel silent stood 

Within the churchyard bounds. 
Like sentinel of solemn mood, 

Guarding its sacred mounds. 
'* Gathered to everlasting peace "" 

The silent sleepers lay, — 
Tenants, whose non-expiring lease 

Knows no eviction day. 

A peace that passeth human thought 

Broods o'er that hallowed ground ; 
A stranger intermeddleth not 

With reverence so profound. 
Sunshine and shadow sportive played 

O'er monument and stone. 
As through the quiet paths I strayed 

To muse of loved ones gone. 





^^ :/. 



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•' Like sentinel of solemn mood, 
Guardinsf its sacred mounds."' 



t:szi^^ 





IH ! mm- 



"'listening silence" reigns within 
On undisputed throne." 



"TRINITY CHURCHYARD. 2 1 

On every hand familiar names 

Of old-time friends appeared. 
Many, whom more than friendship's claims 

Their hearts to mine endeared. 
And backward wandering through the mist 

Of memory's storehouse vast, 
Unbidden rose the shadowy list, 

The phantoms of the past. 

It almost seemed the viewless throng 

Had broke their dreamless sleep, 
To come once more, with voice of song, 

An earthly tryst to keep. 
And forms of loved ones passed away 

Came thronging to my view, 
Companions of that earlier day, 

When life was fresh and new. 

Mysterious power ! at whose command 

The spectres of the past 
Before our inward vision stand. 

With meaning deep and vast. 
While soul and sense, bewildered, stray. 

From earthly scenes withdrawn. 
Where halos of the heavenly day 

Presage immortal dawn. 

And once again the tender tone 

In fancy's dream we hear. 
As when some wind-swept harp has thrown 

Its music on the ear. 



22 STRAY LEAVES FROM A LARKER S LOG. 

As quickly lost — that visioned joy, — 
And source from whence it sprung, 

As passing breezes sweet and coy 
With which the harpstrings rung. 

Oh ! joyful sense that reunites 

The present and the past, 
Its fading glories and delights 

Too beautiful to last. 
The tryst is o'er, and back again 

To earthly scenes I stray, 
A voyager on life's stormy main. 

Ere long to come and stay. 



BANGOR AND AROOSTOOK RAILROAD. 

[A poem written by request.] 

Ho ! dwellers of the Pine Tree state, 

Aroostook's call obey, 
For on your verdict hangs the fate 

Of B. and A. railway. 

Who would be free must strike the blow, 

" Who hesitates is lost" ; 
The foreign carrier is a foe. 

Delay means greater cost. 

This project stands devoid of sham, 

And free for all to scan. 
Enough to name the gallant Cram 

The hour and the /naji. 



BANGOR AND AROOSTOOK RAILROAD. 23 

Far in that northern region lies 

The wealth that waits your hand ; 
Primeval forests endless rise. 

And Eden's garden land. 

The woodman's axe shall clear the way. 

To plant the iron rail ; 
With progress, and its onward sway, 

" There's no such word as fail." 

The Yankee vim, in native style. 

Will push the project through — 
Which means new life around Presque Isle, 

Fort Fairfield, Caribou. 

The *' iron horse," steam-flecked, shall shriek 

Where Indian hunters roamed. 
And rest not till the sight shall seek 

Where bright " St. John " has foamed. 

And Mattawamkeag's clustered five 

Shall hear its echoes ring. 
And Houlton's industries shall thrive, 

And stand like Mount Katahdin. 

The wild, waste places of the north 

Shall "blossom like the rose," 
And energy and life spring forth 

From Nature's long repose. 



2 4 STRAY LEAVES FROM A LARKER'S LOG. 

The eagle, from its aerie cliff 
Shall look, with wondering eye, 

To see, beneath the cloudy rift, 
The " iron horse" rush by. 

Where silence long has reigned supreme, 

Nor foot of man has trod. 
Shall spring, like magic of a dream 

At march of Empire's nod, 

Warehouse and dwelling, church and school, 

Along the iron way. 
From Lake Moluncus' waters cool 

To Madawaska Bay. 

Ye yeomen of the Pine Tree state ! 

The call was ne 'er in vain 
That roused you to resist the fate 

When danger threatened Maine. 

Your glorious state, whose rivers run 

Untrammeled to the sea, 
Whose " Dirigo"the rising sun 

Emblazons for the free. 

Your banner county long has felt 

The press of foreign rail, 
Whose icy fetters never melt, 

Whose hand is gloved in mail. 




" I love thee, boy, with my heart and soul, 
And that love shall watch over thee 

Till my lapsing years in their onward roll 
Blend in eternity's sea." 



TO MY FIRST BORN. 25 

This enterprise, to '* trick wide space," 

And "cruel distance," too, 
Is now presented in their case 

Appealing thus to you. 

Let every county lend a hand — 
Old " York " should lead the trust, 

And show the sturdy yeoman's '*sand," 
*' Aroostook now, or bust." 

Years ago a hardy yeoman started with his family for 
the wilds of Aroostook, and painted on his wagon his 
motto, '■^Aroostook or bnst.'^'' 



TO MY FIRST BORN. 

'T is the night before Christmas ! I sit me down 

And light me a choice cigar ; 
Night's curtain is drawn o'er the sleeping town. 

And hushed the sweet sound " Papa ! " 

My dear little boy has lingered late 

To gaze on the Christmas tree, 
Till his eyes are sealed, like the book of fate. 

As sleepy as eyes can be. 

The long dark lashes that gracefully fringe 

The blue-veined eyelid's rim ; 
And the dainty red of the roses' tinge — 

So sweetly they blend in him ! 



2() STRAY LEAVES FROM A LARKER S LOG. 

His Stocking hangs by the chimney side, 

Awaiting his morning call, 
When the voice of my pet, my joy, my pride, 

Will ring through parlor and hall : 

'' O Papa ! Papa ! Come here and see ! 
Will you stay with me all the day? 
Good Santa Claus brought these toys for me, 
And I want you to help me play/' 

And thus I dream of that vision bright, 
While the smoke wreaths curl around, 

And long for the Christmas' morning light, 
And his pattering footsteps' sound. 

Dear child of a thousand hopes and fears, 
As I think of life's stormy way — 

Of its passions, and follies, its smiles and tears 
That must come with thy circling day. 

My heart goes forth with a father's love. 

That fain for aye would bring 
To its sheltering aik, the returning dove, 

When it comes on its weary wing. 

But, alas for the threescore years that mark 
Life's mile-stones along my way; 

Whose gathering shadows around my bark 
O'er its stormy waters play. 



VERMONT S DESERTED FARMS, 2/ 

Thy boyhood's days will have just begun 

With youthful fires to burn. 
Ere thy father's tend to their setting sun 

And " the land whence none return." 

But I love thee, boy, with my heart and soul. 

And that love shall watch o'er thee 
Till my lapsing years in their onward roll 

Blend in eternity's sea. 



VERMONT'S DESERTED FARMS. 

A Commercial Rhyme. 

[Written to be read at a farmers' gathering at Bradford, Vt., and 
purposely advertising the phosphates of the Bradley Fertilizer Com- 
pany, with which the author has been so many years connected.] 

A sound is heard throughout the land 

Which causes vague alarms ; 
You hear it oft, on every hand, 

♦♦Vermont's deserted farms." 

Where once the strong Green Mountain boy 

Pursued his honest toil, 
And harvests rich were reaped, in joy. 

By tillers of the soil, 



28 STRAY LEAVES FROM A LARKER'S LOG. 

You now behold the shattered homes 

All crumbling to decay, 
Like long- neglected catacombs 

Of races passed away. 

What means this change from former days? 

What stays the reapers' hands? 
Why, only this ; it never pays 

To reap exhausted lands. 

The constant cropping of the soil, 

Returning not the drain, 
Unlike the *' widow's cruse of oil," 

Will not revive again. 

The drafts you make upon your bank 

Cannot be honored long, 
Unless, at intervals, you plank 

The cash to make it strong. 

So Mother Earth cannot yield up 

A garnered store of good 
To those who constant drain her cup, 

Returning not her food. 

One potent power, "the farmer's choice,"— 

As everybody knows — 
Can '♦ make the wilderness rejoice, 

And blossom as the rose." 



Vermont's deserted farms. 29 

'T is Bradley's brand, the great ''XL," 

Dispels the gathering gloom ; 
And farmers' hearts rejoice to tell 

How •' desert places bloom." 

Its chemical constituents rare 

Deposit 'gainst your drafts. 
Unceasing made, on fields so fair, 

Of crops, and aftermaths. 

And he who uses not this means 

To fertilize his soil. 
Can scarcely raise a hill of beans 

To pay him for his toil. 

Unlike the one of olden time. 

Whose folly we bemoan. 
Reverse the adage, and the line, 

And reap where you have sown. 

And using Bradley's Phosphate here, 

Each one who fairly tries. 
Will surely make " his title clear" 

To mansions 'neath the skies. 

And then no more the cry we Ml hear, 

" Deserted farms," arise ; 
You'll "bid farewell to every fear," 

And '* wipe your weeping eyes." 



30 STRAY LEAVES FROM A I-ARKEr's LOG. 

CHRISTMAS, 1895. 

*'A merry Christmas " to my boys 

A loving father sends, 
While Santa Claus, with many toys, 
Beneath his burden bends. 

Through all your lives, my darling boys. 

May merry Christmas come, 
And ever with increasing joys 

Within a happy home. 

O joyous childhood, full too soon. 

Your dreamland hours are o'er. 
And morning's dawn gives place to noon 

Whose shadows fleck the floor. 

My days are swiftly speeding on 

To their appointed goal, 
A Christmas lurking in the yon 

Brings sorrow to my soul. 

Still Santa Claus will make his rounds 

Distributing the toys. 
And the same merry Christmas sounds 

Will cheer my darling boys. 

When hushed in death's long, dreamless sleep, 

My voice no more you know. 
Let memory still her vigil keep. 

For oh ! I loved you so ! 



THE BACHELORS NEW YEARS NIGHT. 3 1 

THE BACHELOR'S NEW YEAR'S NIGHT. 

On the lone pillow of my lonely bed, 

Listening the midnight knell of time. 
Uneasy lies my weary head. 

Busy with thoughts of youthful prime. 

What hopes and joys illumed the vanished past. 
What loves and friendships stranged and died. 

Inconstant still as April's fickle blast, 
Dethroned by gusts of human pride ! 

But time is constant, " runs its ceaseless course," 

Decay still regnant in its power. 
And human hearts return with sad remorse 

To youth's bright dreams and happier hour. 

The tide has ebbed with which life's sands were wet ; 

But once in life that tide may flow ; 
Occasion, seized before that flood has set, 

May mitigate its later woe. 

Occasion ! Name of power which sways the world, — 

Who lets it fly his grasp. 
May drift life's ocean like a ship sail-furled. 

Nor reach the port his soul would clasp. 

No more ! Prophetic words with grief allied, 

Resounding far its echoing din. 
The tomb of every warm belief that died 

Bears on its door, " It might have been." 



32 STRAY LEAVES FROM A LARKER S LOG. 

LINES INDITED IN A YOUNG LADY'S ALBUM. 

In thoughtless mood doth friendship's hand 

Indite its missive here; 
As though its vows were traced on sand, 

Wave-washed to disappear. 
Forgetful that, in after years. 

Some loving eyes may trace, 
With tender memories and with tears, 

What time should ne'er efface. 

To thoughtful minds a meaning vast 

These simple lines contain, 
Unbroken friendship, still to last 

In pleasure's hour or pain. 
No idle toy to lightly fling 

Broadcast to every breeze ; 
A treasure only love can bring 

Our wayward hearts to please. 

And as the seasons hasten round. 

And friend by friend departs, 
May memory's chiming bells resound 

Their requiem in our hearts ; 
And those who wait, with longing feet, 

On life's uncertain shore, 
Find comfort that again they meet 

Where loved ones part no more. 



A POEM. 33 



A POEM 



Read at a Supper of the Fish and Game Association, 
AT Cheshire House, Keene. 

A fish and game association 

No new thing seems to be, 
Since fishing was an occupation 

On the Sea of Galilee. 

I doubt if modern fishermen, 

With hook and line or net, 
E'er had such luck as Simon's men 

At the Lake of Gennesaret. 

Again, upon Tiberias Sea, 

When Peter went a-fishing, 
Thomas — called Didymus — and he 

For better luck were wishing. 

At last they cast their net aright, 

And " multitudes of fishes" 
Caused them to pull with all their might, 

To consummate their wishes. 

♦* Fisherman's luck," an aphorism 

Whose early application 
Saw Peter's Christian hypnotism 

Draw coin by confiscation. 

For being short of ready cash. 

Of which there was a drouth. 
By faith and luck he found the trash 

Within a fish's mouth. 



34 STRAY LEAVES FROM A LARKER S LOG. 

So Jonah had the fisherman's luck, 
When swallowed by the whale ; 

The big fish had to throw him up, — 
At least, so runs the tale. 

These ancient stories some discount, 

As tending to delude, 
And relegate the whale account 

To "innocuous desuetude." 

But turn we now from fish to game. 
And listen ancient story ; — 

No law to regulate the same 
When Noah was in his glory. 

But he was a protectionist, 

And ere high-water mark. 
They found he had a pair, at least, 

Of each kind in his ark. 

The first game keeper on the list, 

His floating game preserve 
Required of Noah, I must insist. 

An Austin Corbin nerve. 

Game hunters also took the lead. 
For Abraham caught a ram soon ; 

Three hundred foxes, so we read, 
Were caught by Mr. Samson. 



A POEM. 35 

In pairs he tied them tail to tail, 

With firebrands tied between ; — 
A burner on the largest scale 

The world has ever seen. 

And through the fields of golden maize 

These burning foxes ran ; 
Philistines saw their corn ablaze 

By this new gamester's plan. 

This same man, Samson, met one day 

Within his path a lion, 
A beast which modern hunters say 

They hardly care to try on. 

He simply grabbed him by the jaws, 

And rent the beast asunder, 
Regardless of the state game laws, 

Which made the people wonder. 

Elisha, also a game man, 

Called bears to his assistance 
When hoodlums, following him, began 

To shout " bald-headed" with persistence. 

But all old things have passed away, 

And new things take their places. 
The fly and reel in our day 

The old-time mode displaces. 



36 STRAY LEAVES FROM A LARKER's LOG. 

The " Hart that pants for waterbrooks," 

As sacred histories tell, 
Finds no such drafts in cooling nooks 

As we get from Hart- well. 

Let fish within the water sport, 
And game in woodland browse ; 

No better fish and game resort 
Than HartwelPs Cheshire House. 



CLIFTONDALE. 

There's a quiet, cozy little station 
Upon the " Eastern rail," 

Of merry Saugus a relation. 
And known as " Cliftondale." 

No splashing sound of water-wheel. 
Or steammiirs wheezy puff, 

A thriving business would reveal. 
And yet they're "up to snufif." 

And " Saugus sixes," so they say. 
Come from this charming quarter, 

For which the city dandies pay, 
And think they cross the water. 

Diminutive indeed the vice 

To which they thus do pander : 

The one is sauce for goose, so nice ; 
The other, sauce for orander. 



CLIFTONDALE. 37 

Old ladies still, without alloy, 

Rehearse the deeds of eld, 
With glorious pinch of " maccoboy*' 

Twixt thumb and finger held. 

Still gracefully the dallying smoke 

In circling wreaths ascends, 
As round the board the merry joke 

Is passed by puffing friends. 

However much this may detract 

From *' Clifton's" moral status. 
Her virtues more than counteract 

The vice to which she caters. 

Refinement's tasteful hand arrays 

Her genial halls in flowers, 
And sunshine, lingering here, delays 

Amid her vine-wreathed bowers. 

When robed in springtime's gay attire, 

Or autumn's gorgeous rays, 
None view her beauties but admire, 

"None name them but to praise." 

The rising sun lights cliiT and crag 

As when, in Scottish day, 
Along his highland path the stag 

Fled from the hounds away. 



38 STRAY LEAVES FROM A LARKER's LOG. 

From woody glen the bluebird's throat 
Pours forth its raptured song, 

While, echoing back the silvery note, 
The hills its strain prolong. 

The robin's plaintive tone ascends 
Like fervent morning prayer ; 

The skylark's melting music blends 
To charm the summer air. 

And thus in sweet Arcadian dreams 
Time's fleeting hours are passed ; 

But dreams and dreamers, so it seems. 
Must end in smoke at last. 

Thus day by day our lives unfold 
The symbols of their doom, 

And life's short leaf, adroitly rolled. 
Burns ashes for the tomb. 



A BACHELOR'S OUTING. 

A pleasing memory round me clings 
Which time can ne'er displace. 

Of hours whose happiness still brings 
Joy's sunshine to my face ; 

A summer's day whose balmy air 
Could scarce a ripple wake, 

A sky whose cloudless beauty rare 
Stretched calm o'er bay and lake ; 



A BACHELOR S OUTING. 39 

And gentle friends whose charming wit 

Beguiled the flying hours, 
Where ravenous mosquitoes flit 

In Newport's leafy bowers. 

In vain Havana's fragrance floats 

Upon the dreamy air ; 
A sensible mosquito dotes 

On females fresh and fair. 

And so their busy bills they plied 

That evening by the bay, 
Although with puffing smoke, I tried 

To drive the scamps away. 

The ready meal at last announced, 

We sought its soothing charms, 
And on the fish and chicken pounced 

Sans blessings, prayers or psalms. 

No onions in the chow-chow dish ! " 

One sad, sweet voice exclaimed. 
Alas ! how fervently I wish 

Bermudas for the dames. 

I seize the fork, and angling try 

To find the odorous dower; 
But fail to bring before my eye 

Aught save the cauliflower. 



40 STRAY LEAVES FROM A LARKER's LOG. 

Then disappointment's bitter gush 
Suffused those eyes with tears. 

And, calling it " a mess of mush," 
At Cross and Black well sneers. 



'Tis ever thus in life's bright sky 
That clouds will dim the stars, 

And disappointment's shadows lie 
E'en o'er our pickle jars. 

But soon again bright joy relit 

Its beacon in her eye, 
As in the bower once more we sit 

And gaze on wave and sky. 

And now the evening shadows fringe 

Irondequoit's clear bay, 
So lately glittering with the tinge 

Of golden sunset's ray. 

How gently soft night's curtains fall 

As parting day expires ! 
Her dusky mantle spreads o'er all 

As daylight's god retires. 

How peaceful sleeps the lakelet now, 

Reflecting on its breast 
The placid night, whose star-gem'd brow 

Emblems eternal rest ! 



SAGE CHEESE-INGS. 4I 

Admonished by the flying hours, 

Our homeward way we take, 
While star on star in beauty showers 

Its bright beams o'er the lake. 

And all too soon our journey ends 

'Mid Rochester's gay towers, 
Where heavenward looming high she sends 

The immortal block of Powers. 

Beluctant, then, we say farewell ; 

Thus joys fly one by one, 
When shall I meet again, pray tell, 

With fair Miss Edgerton ? 



SAGE CHEESE-INGS. 

[The following couplet was written as an acknowledgment of a 
sage cheese received from a friend in Vermont.] 

Full often men for sage advice 

Will make but poor return, 
And, wedded to their own device. 

They scarce can " live and learn." 

But, wandering on through devious ways, 

By slow and sure degrees, 
They end their melancholy days 

In ignorance of cheese. 



42 STRAY LEAVES FROM A LARKER S LOG. 

I thank the goodness and the grace 
That on my birth has smiled, 

And fostered in my Christian race 
A love for sage cheese, mild. 

I also thank the generous hand 

That sent such goodly store. 
And sagely hope he Ml have the sand 

To send me down some more. 

It 's "just the cheese," the verdict goes, 
Through all the household round ; 

More binding yet the flavor grows, 
As most of us have found. 

For years have passed and locks grown gray 
Since last in childhood's hour, 

My memory can recall the day— 
(For memory has such power), 

I tasted first the festive cheese 

With sage so sweetly blent. 
And ate my fill, till by degrees 

My appetite was spent. 

So now, in second childhood's day, 

The taste of earlier years 
Revives again my sense's play, 

And cheese the more endears. 




s :3 




^ 






THREE PICTURES. 43 



So, like the Christian devotee 
Who eats and drinks his wine — 

This do in memory of me '' — 
Such was the charge divine — 

I '11 eat my cheese and think of you. 
"Why do the heathen rage? " 
Because good cheeses are so few, 
And few of them are sage. 



THREE PICTURES. 

Fond faces beam from the pictured walls 

Of my chamber still and lone, 
And echoing back through memory's halls, 

Comes each remembered tone. 
And age, and youth, and childhood seem 

My visioned fancies given 
To mold and shape my spirit's dream 

And turn my thoughts to heaven. 

And lo ! enthroned at God's right hand, 

Arrayed in garments white, 
I look upon the "shadowy band" 

Beyond the veil of night : — 
My angel mother's dear sad eyes 

Watch o'er my couch of rest. 
As nightly the pall of slumber lies 

On heart and senses pressed. 



44 STRAY LEAVES FROM A LARKER S LOG. 

Another pictured face beside, 

Still beams with love so true, 
So fondly with past joys allied, 

In days when life was new. 
She was, earth's mission scarce begun, 

Life's springtime full of bloom. 
By Death's untimely frost o'errun. 

And garnered for the tomb. 

Heroic soul ! with eye of faith, 
And trust in God, the giver. 

She passed the " shadowy vale of death," 
And crossed " the silent river." 

Another face, soft eyes of blue, 

A wealth of golden hair, — 
The childlike grace, the sweetness true. 

Beam out upon me there. 
Sweet Alice, darling of my love, 

I may not sing thy worth. 
Thou bearest the " olive" like the dove, 

Love's pledge of rest on earth. 

Thou little angel of my heart, 

I bow before thy shrine, 
God gave the power to still in part 

This restless soul of mine. 
And nightly, as I lay my head 

To rest from earthly care. 
Bright visions round my couch are led, 

By thy sweet face, and fair. 




ALICE. 



THE DYING YEAR. 45 

Each coming night and morning brings 

These faces to my view : 
As Hght and dark on noiseless wings 

Their endless round pursue. 
Like guardian angels to me given, 

They watch me while I sleep, 
And seem to ask of God in heaven 

My wayward heart to keep. 

God grant, when from my closing eyes 

This world shall fade away. 
That I may walk beyond the skies 

In heaven's effulgent day. 
And not alone, but hand in hand 

With those who cheer my dream, 
In love unbroken aye to stand 

Where love is all supreme. 



THE DYING YEAR. 

Another of life's mile-stones passed ; 

The dying year's last moan 
Still echoing on the wintry blast. 

With sad and solemn tone ! 

Farev/ell, old year! Oblivion's wing 
Waves o'er thy dying bed, 

No wish avails again to bring 
Thine hours so quickly fled. 



46 STRAY LEAVES FROM A LARKER's LOG. 

The midnight stroke from yonder tower, , 

With fateful meaning fell. 
And for thy sorrowing, parting hour, 

Proclaimed a sad farewell. 

How many a heart now cold and still'd, 

Beheld thy dawning day. 
That once with joy and rapture thrill'd 

Along life's flowery way ! 

Thy reign is o''er, but backward borne 

Along thy checkered track. 
Are memories haunting hearts that mourn, 

That loved ones come not back. 

Alas ! the year whose dying knell 

The midnight silence breaks, 
Leaves on each thinking soul a spell, 

Which slumbering memory wakes. 

And once again, before us cast, 
Past joys and sorrows blend. 
As peering through the shadows past. 



O early loves and vanished joys. 
That throng like mourners round, 

Why come ye, with that haunting voice, 
To mock us with its sound ? 



A WIFELY TOKEN. 47 



Old year, farewell ! The stone is rolled 

Thy sepulchre before, 
And none shall write the fiat bold, 

"Resurgam," on its door. 



A WIFELY TOKEN. 

Again we ring the old year out, 

And welcome in the new, 
Together, o'er life's varied route, 

We 've wandered brave and true ; 
Each passing year, recurring, brings 

Our nuptial day again, — 
A mile-stone, round which memory clings 

With no alloy of pain. 
As token of that happy hour 

Which saw our youthful prime, 
A gift I bring, which hath the power 

To mark the flight of time ; 
A pledge may serve in after life. 

Though small the offering be, 
As memory of thy loving wife, 

Constant, and true to thee. 
Wear it in memory of that hour 

I pledged my faith to thine, — 
A talisman, whose magic power 

Shall bind thy heart to mine. 



48 STRAY LEAVES FROM A LARKER's LOG. 

THE POTTER'S FIELD. 

Being a Reverie of a Sunday Drive. 

It chanced upon an autumn day, 
Whose hazy sunshine glimmering lay 
Upon the shadowy hills and streams 
Whose visions filled my youthful dreams, 
My onward road, with devious track, 
Followed the winding Merrimack. 
O'er Boscawen's long and sandy plain 
My horses toiled with loosened rein. 
To where on hillside still and calm. 
Peace brooded o'er the county farm. 
All hushed and still, that Sabbath morn, 
And gently waved the yellow corn. 
As Indian summer's sunshine played 
Fond dalliance with each golden blade. 
Far on the river's bank below, 
Whose ceaseless current's onward flow 
Is emblem of the hurrying pace 
Of Time's relentless, onward race, 
The traveler's eye may note the mounds, 
That mark the " Pauper burial grounds ;" 
The plain, white slabs in rows extend — 
Mile-stones that mark their journey's end. 
On each, inscription stands revealed 
Who sleep within the " Potter's Field." 
O'er their sad graves no tear is shed, 
No mourner grieves the pauper dead. 



THE POTTER'S FIELD. 

How many a form now resting there, 

Once knew a mother's loving care ! 

A father's blessing once was shed, 

In kindly tones on youthful head ; 

A sister's sweet and dear caress. 

In youth's bright morn, did haply bless ; 

And brothers round the homestead played. 

Joyous beneath the maple's shade. 

Alas, the change of fateful time ! 

The pride of manhood's strength and prime 

May end at last his earthly race 

In county pauper's burial place. 

Alas ! for time, and death, and care. 

Regardless each of wish or prayer, 

What gloom about our way they fling. 

The burial pageant of our spring ! 

The dreams that each successive year 

Had clothed in hues of brightest sphere. 

At last like withered leaves have died. 

And sleep in darkness side by side. 

So many a heart that once was gay 

In pleasures of life's opening day, 

Now rests beneath some darksome mound, 

Within a pauper burial ground. 



49 



50 STRAY LEAVES FROM A LARKER S LOG. 

TO A YOUNG LADY, 

[On the anniversary of her birthday, with ' ' a bird from bright 
Canary Isles."] 

Accept my bird ! Its witching song 

May cheer some lonely hour ; 
Gift for a day whose memories throng 

With self-renewing power. 
Though in the bloom of joyous youth 

Such days are bright and fair, 
Our riper years recall with ruth 

The castles built in air. 

The dreams of childhood's happy hours 

With coming joys are rife. 
And deeply hid amid its flowers 

The mystery of life. 
But passing years withdraw the veil 

From childhood's radiant morn ; 
Its flowers disclose the serpent's trail, 

Its rose reveals the thorn. 

O happy bird, whose joyful song, 

Though " bondage chains thy wing," 
Can still its silvery note prolong. 

Its melting cadence fling, 
Thou hast the power to charm away 

The sorrow of the heart. 
And bid the joy of life's young day 

Once more to being start. 




c 2 



THE DESERTED FARM. 

Thy song may oft recall some hour 

O'er which fond memory dwells, 
Of quiet grove or shady bovver 

Whose tale thy music tells ; 
As backward turning through the years 

The raptured fancy strays, 
Where youthful visions, hopes, and fears. 

Beguiled life's halcyon days. 

O maiden fair, as circling years 

Bring round thy natal day, 
May bird songs sweetly greet thine ears. 

May sunbeams gild thy way ; 
Thy tender thoughts, that, white-winged, soar 

In search of peace and rest, 
Return as waves that lave the shore 

Ebb back to ocean's breast. 



THE DESERTED FARM. 

A dust-worn traveler draws his rein 

At sunset's dreamy hour, 
While longing look o'er hill and plain 

Attests fond memory's power. 
Long years have passed since last he viewed 

His native heath and hill. 
And silence now, with shadowy brood. 

Makes Nature weirdly still. 



52 STRAY LEAVES FROM A LARKER S LOG. 

There stands the homestead of his youth, 
And clustering round its door 

Come visions bright of love and truth 
From memory's endless store. 

He sees again his father's form 

Within the doorway stand, 
His thin locks whitened by the storm, 

By passing breezes fanned ; 
Mother and sisters, brothers there 

Resume their wonted place, 
And lost awhile in scenes so fair 

He sees each loving face. 
But, wakened from his blissful dream, 

The past returns no more ; 
Alone he stands, while sunset's gleam 

Casts shadows on the door. 

Deserted, now its windows blank 

Stare at the passer-by, 
And weeds and grasses stale and rank 

In wind-swept chaos lie. 
No more from pastures green at night 

To farm-yard come the kine. 
Nor homeward come with hearts so light 

The boys of "auld lang syne." 
No neighing steed from yonder stall 

Impatient calls his mate. 
The shades of night around him fall. 

A.nd all is desolate. 



SAVE THE FORESTS. 53 

He turns his steed, with lingering look 

Surveys the old domain ; 
He hears the murmuring of the brook 

Which onward seeks the plain ; 
The sighing winds a requiem sing 

Amid the cheerless calm ; 
A saddened memory still to bring 

The old " deserted farm." 



SAVE THE FORESTS. 
" Touch Not a Single Bough." 

A voice from out the Granite hills 

Is wafted to the sea ; 
The echo wakes from rocks and rills, 
♦* O woodman, spare that tree." 

The glory of the Granite state 

Is fading fast away, — 
To save her from that ruthless fate 

We ask your aid to-day. 

Each mountain from its cloud-capped dome 

Indignant spurns the hand 
Would rob the treasures of its home, 

The forests of the land. 



54 STRAY LEAVES FROM A LARKER S LOG. 

Mount Washington in grandeur sends 

Its protest from the sky, 
And Lafayette's dark shadow blends 

To aid her stern ally. 

Chocorua, with frowning peak, 

Stands ready for the charge, 
The woodman''s axe must never seek 

The heights of Kearsarge. 

The Twins, in silent state, look down 

To stay the invader's hand. 
And Cannon Mountain's awful frown 

Still guards enchanted land. 

Monadnock toward the setting sun 

Her forehead bold extends, 
And Moosilauke, cold and dun, 

Her ready protest lends. 

The mountain streams, that hurrying rush 

Along their rocky way, 
Bear tones of love for tree and bush. 

To river, lake, and bay. 

The broad Connecticut rolls on 

Majestic to the sea. 
The burden of her song still one, 
" O woodman, spare that tree." 



SAVE THE FORESTS. 55 

Wild Ammonoosuc, hastening down 

From out its mountain home, 
Calls to the hamlet and the town 

Where'er its waters roam, 

To stay the woodman's axe and leave 

The forests as they stand, 
That gorgeous Autumn still may weave 

Her pennons o'er the land. 

The Merrimack, whose busy wave 

Her hundred mill wheels turns. 
Calls for the good and true to save 

The woods for which she yearns. 

Our lakes, whose broad expanses gleam 

Along their glittering lines, 
With sunset's glory in its beam, 

" Walled round by sombering pines," 

Plead for the woodland glories still 

To mingle with their charms, 
Where forest, lake, and mountain rill 

Are held in Nature's arms. 

How peaceful Winnipesaukee lies 

Where mountain shadows blend 
And mirrors in its tide the skies 

That gracious o'er it bend ! 



56 STRAY LEAVES FROM A LARKER's LOG. 

Oh, never may the woodman^s axe 

Resound along its shore, 
Nor " lumber king" with ruthless tracks 

Its forest glades explore. 

The Squams have heard the threatening sound, 

Like quarry held at bay 
Who hears the yelping of the hound 

In distance far away. 

And Sunapee, whose waters cool 
Lie deep, and clear, and pure, — 

A mirror of its inmost soul 
In conscious beauty sure, — 

Has heard the sturdy woodman's stroke 

Along the mountain side, 
Until again the echoes woke 

Upon its rippling tide. 

So mountain, river, bay, and lake. 

In Nature's voices free. 
Call till the echoes re-awake, 
♦' O woodman, spare that tree ! " 



IN MEMORIAM. 57 



IN MEMORIAM 
Of"Craigie Burn," once the Beautiful Home of the 

LiVERMORES, near PLYMOUTH, N. H. 

[These lines are a kindly memory of the late Heber Livermore, the 
friend of my boyhood.] 

Ye banks and braes of " Craigie Burn," 

Whose haunts my childhood knew, 
Again fond memory bids me turn 

A passing glance on you. 
In fancy's dream I see once more 

Each well- remembered face. 
And hear again the tones of yore 

That haunt that lovely place. 
Although the ruthless hand of time, 

And man's more ruthless still. 
Have swept the glory of your prime 

From homestead, lawn, and hill — 
Yet beauty lingers 'mid decay, 

With sunset glories blent. 
As round the broken vase of clay 

Still clings the roses' scent, 
So round your honored, time-worn walls, 

Sweet memories clustering twine, 



And every passing breeze recalls 
The days of Auld Lang Syne. 



58 STRAY LEAVES FROM A LARKER's LOG. 

AN ACKNOWLEDGMENT. 
[On receiving a bouquet on my 50th birthday.] 

Sir Farley and madam, permit me, I pray, 

To return you my thanks, most sincere, 
For the beautiful flowers that graced my birthday, 

And gladdened my " happy new year." 

And thanks for your witty and kindly expressions, 

Arrayed in poetical verse, 
Throwing charity's veil o'er my many transgressions, 

Gently hinting I jnight have been worse. 

And thanks for the "taffy," so called, which you gave me 

In regard to '' erectness of form," 
And my *' visage so fresh and so fair," but oh, save me. 

My blushes are getting too warm. 

Alas ! 't is too true that a twoscore and ten 

Of the years of my pilgrimage here 
Have fled, to return to me never again. 

Though still to my memory dear. 

For youth, with its visions enchanting and bright, 

Seems but just to have vanished away. 
And left all its halo of joy and delight 

Surrounding my midsummer's day. 

Still longer I hope I may revel and bask 

In the sunshine of youthful delight ; 
When youth we surrender, and age we unmask — 

Quick follow the shadows of night. 



THE LAST OF HIS FAMILY. 



59 



Let me therefore count not by the years as they fly, 

Nor reckon my life " but a span," 
But, retaining the feelings of youth, never dye, 

But grow honestly gray, like a man. 

Again let me thank you, my kind and good friends. 
For bestrewing my pathway with flowers. 

May your own be rose-sprinkled till Hfe's journey ends. 
And " Couleur de rose '' all your hours. 



THE LAST OF HIS FAMILY. 
The Old Man's Christmas. 

" Go, stand on a funeral mound 
Far, far from all who love thee." 

Christmas bells once more are ringing, 

Joyously they sound. 
To many a human heart still bringing 

Happiness profound. 

In homes, where gathered round the altar, 

Brothers, sisters greet. 
Homes, where love can never falter, 

Loving households meet. 

Childhood's happy tones resounding, 

" Merry Christmas " calls 
Echo back again, resounding 

Through old ancestral halls. 



6o STRAY LEAVES FROM A LARKER'S LOG. 

But for me no welcome bringing 

With their joyful tone ; 
'Midst the chiming and the ringing 

Fm wandering alone. 

Passed away beyond recalling 
Youth's sweet Christmas hours ; 

Tears of deep regret are falling, — 
Dews for memory's flowers. 

Many a one I loved and cherished 

In that earlier day, 
Like the autumn leaf has perished, 

Fading, passed away. 

One by one o'er death's dark river, 

With the boatman pale ; 
To earth's shores returning never. 

On Eternity set sail. 

Never more that band may cluster 

Round our holly tree ; 
Christmas joys have lost their lustre ; 

Twine no wreath for me. 



THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS. 6 1 



THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS— 1894, 

" There laughs my home ! 

Sad stranger, where is thine?" 

Joy and plenty, peace and health, 

Are brooding o'er my hearth. 
Old Time, who plucks my joys by stealth, 

Gives ever new ones birth. 

The merry Christmas days of old, 

In childhood's happy morn. 
Are treasured still in memory's fold 

With thoughts of loved ones gone. 

Yet now my heart with pleasure thrills 

To greet my darling boys, 
And all my soul with rapture fills, 

To share their Christmas joys. 

With thankful heart I turn to Him 

" Who doeth all things well," 
Mindful that life's bright lamp grows dim, 
As years their story tell. 

Yet many a merry Christmas day. 

My darlings, may we share, 
And hope and love still light the way, — 

Your father's Christmas prayer. 



62 STRAY LEAVES FROM A LARKER's LOG. 

A PROTEST. 

What sound is this which greets the ear 

In Mendon's quiet town, 
Which brings to every heart a fear, 

To every brow a frown? 

Shades of the Nipmuck warriors, rise 

And stay the invader's hand. 
Who seeks to wrest from us the prize 

That beautifies our land. 

That mimic sea whose waters cool 
Our childhood's hours beguiled, 

Whose wave, like fair Bethesda's pool. 
With healing power has smiled ; 

Pure as the springs whose crystal flow 
Bathed Eden's garden bowers, 

Ere Adam's sin had wrought its woe, 
Or serpent trailed its flowers ; 

When robed in springtime's gay attire — 

Those ever joyful days — 
None view its beauties but admire, 

None name them but to praise. 

Beneath the summer's sultry heat 

We roam its shady bowers, 
Where cooling breezes ever meet, 

And song-birds wile the hours. 



A PROTEST. 63 

Lustrous the languid lily lies 

Upon its mirroring breast 
Where sunset, lingering, softly dies 

Adown her journey west. 

The pulsing steamer glides along, 

While scarce a ripple wakes, 
And happiness and joy still throng 

This miniature of lakes. 

'T was God's own hand that placed it here 

In Nature's arms to rest. 
Shall man's destructive art appear 

To change his high behest? 

Shades of the ancient dwellers, come 

And save it from its doom ! 
Nipmucks and Crowns, in death though dumb. 

Speak from your long-sealed tomb. 

Disarm the vandal hand would take 

This gem from out our crown, 
And leave our beauteous fairy lake 

The joy of Mendon town. 



64 STRAY LEAVES FROM A LARKER'S LOG. 

IDYL. 

She was neatly robed in a calico dress, 
With a turban round her head, 

But a queenly vision nevertheless 
Across my pathway sped. 

The broom in her pretty dimpled hand 
With a graceful sweep she plied, — 

A model, indeed, she seemed to stand 
A fairy personified. 

Her blushing cheek had a healthful glow 
That vied with the peach's bloom ; 

She seemed a life-inspired chromo 
As she garnished the dining-room. 

If the shadow of years could backward go 

As on Ahaz' dial of old. 
Transforming me back to youth's fresh glow, 

And Adonis' graceful mold, 

On bended knee, to this maiden fair, 
I would offer the whole of a heart 

Of which this queen of the turbaned hair 
Has already purloined a part. 



FROM AN ALBUM LEAF. 65 

FROM AN ALBUM LEAF. 

I consecrate this leaf to one 

Whose charming wit and beauty 
Convinces every mother's son 

To worship her is duty. 

Her presence gives the wheels of time 

Accelerated motion, 
And hours seem minutes as they chime 

To Eternity's vast ocean. 

' T would shorten life to linger on 

Where wit and beauty beckon, 
The fleeting hours too soon be gone, 

Where they as minutes reckon. 

Almost a joy it were to ride 

O'er Charon's darksome ferry. 
If nestled closely by her side 

In the pale boatman's wherry. 

And when Saint Peter's golden key 

Heaven's gate for her has riven, 
Another angel there will be 

And ready-made for Heaven. 



66 STRAY LEAVES FROM A LARKER'S LOG. 



BABCOCK'S WHISTLE. 

Whence comes that shrill, unearthly screech 

Like wailing of the damned, 
Whose echo floats o'er Salisbury beach. 

By Powwow's breezes fanned? 

Its weird, wild notes now rise and fall 

In strange, mysterious tone; 
Like spirits of the lost, who call 

From " SheoPs " heated zone. 

It dies and swells, now far, now near, 

Borne onward by the breeze ; 
In hell's confines the damned can hear 

Its wavering melodies. 

But whence comes it? The riddle here 

No stranger asks in vain ; 
'T is Babcock's whistle, shrill and clear, 

Resounding o'er the plain. 

Its intonations, long and loud, 

In answering echoes whirled, 
Like Sinai's thunders from the cloud 

To wake a guilty world. 

It dies at last, with moaning sound, 

And forth his legions throng. 
It only marks the daily round 

Of hours that glide along. 




"^- 



" May every man, unchallenged, join 

The troop he loved, anew. 
And ride at His right hand, when God 

Shall hold the last review." 



THE ROXBURY HORSE GUARD. 67 

In peaceful business enterprise, 

And not a wail of woe. 
And this is just about the size 

Of why they whistle so. 



THE ROXBURY HORSE GUARD. 

A Portraiture. 

[Written on the occasion of the presentation of the portraits of the 
past commanders of the guard. It may make the points of the poem 
more clear if the fact is stated that Past Commander Hodges was a 
bank president ; Holmes, a real estate agent ; Curtis, a lumberman ; 
Calder, a florist ; Decatur, an inn keeper, and Scott, a carriage manu- 
facturer.] 

Attention, Guards ! we gather here. 

Not for the drill, to-night ; 
No martial music greets the ear, 

No glittering blade the sight. 
Upon those faithful semblances 

We here are met to gaze, 
Which from our walls in eloquence 

Shall speak of bygone days. 

'Tis meet that we should feed the flames, 

As vestals did of yore. 
That memory lights for honored names 

Who lead the guard no more. 
And thus the limner's skill shall aid 

Our retrospective glance — 
Behold our captains here portrayed, 

Heroes of sword and lance. 



68 STRAY LEAVES FROM A LARKER'S LOG. 

'T is meet that where the raw recruit 

Pursues, at drill, his labors, 
Until his efforts bear the fruit 

Of deftly-handled sabres, 
We hang these silent counterparts, 

As tomahawks in lodges, 
Mementos that shall lead our hearts, 

Backward from Hall to Hodges. 



Hodges. 



Look on this genial countenance, 

Worthy of better bards, — 
We put him rightly in the van, 

The founder of the Guards. 
I doubt not Hodges wishes well 

Each man of file and rank. 
And willingly would let us all 

Deposit in his bank. 



Holmes. 



Next falls in view, as down the line 

My raptured vision roams, 
A cheerful face our hearts enshrine, 

Hodges' successor, Holmes. 
Holmes is a first-class name, you Ml grant, 

For one who has of late, 
Despite its downward tendency, 

Stuck fast to "real estate." 



THE ROXBURY HORSE GUARDS. 69 

Curtis. 
And this the man whose wares contain 

Our dwellings unbegun ; 
For him the forest monarchs fall, 

For him the sawmills run. 
He never fosters wrath with wrong, 

However great the hurt is, 
And to a fair one's querying glance 

His answer never Oirt is. 

Calder. 

As Spring came, when the winter Calder 

From out his realm of snow, 
Comes tripping forth our floral friend, 

Bringing the early blow, 
And sparkling like the lingering dew 

Sun-kissed from fragrant bowers, 
Contented as the bee is, lapped 

In luxury of flowers. 

Decatur. 

Along the Azores the Atlantic surge. 

With paeans loud and free. 
Sings of Columbia's valiant son 

Whose thunders shook the sea. 
His own work unto each, wherein 

Each may his glory win — 
I trust that our Decatur is 

De Caterer at his inn. 



70 STRAY LEAVES FROM A LARKER'S LOG. 

Scott. 
But let the ball go round, my boys — 

See that black eye look down, 
As might have flashed old Winfield's glance 

On Buena Vista's town. 
The " Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled," 

Some modern folks disparage, 
But judging by our Scott, they were 

Unequaled for their carriage. 

Hall. 

To him who loves and leads the Guard, 

Let us all homage bring. 
Though recently his orders have 

A Benedictine ring. 
That handsome face, alas, it wears 

An absent look, and then, 
However late the squad remains, 

Hall 710'w goes home at ten. 



Long may their painted features stand 

The strain of time and weather. 
Tried, judged, and sentenced to be hanged, 

' T is well they hang together. 
Endeared by many a friendly tie, 

Stanch men of loyal grain. 
If leaders, like greenbacks, run short. 

We '11 vote them in again. 



WRITTEN IN LOTTIE OWENS ALBUM. 7 1 

And when the horseman pale shall sound 

The final reveille, 
And every Guard shall mount to charge 

In life's last fierce mel^e. 
May every man, unchallenged, join 

The troop he loved, anew. 
And ride at His right hand, when God 

Shall hold the last review. 



WRITTEN IN LOTTIE OWEN'S ALBUM. 
Ode to Budget. 

How oft we find a priceless gem 

Encased in modest budget. 
The gayest flowers on tiniest stem, 

Pure gold in smallest nugget ; 
Yet here no trifling theme employs 

My thoughts, as fast they flow in. 
The more one sees, more one enjoys 

That black-eyed *' Budget Owen." 

May grief ne'er dim with tears her eyes, 

Nor sorrow make her heart ache ; 
Of every joy beneath the skies 

May she with pleasure partake ; 
And as old Time, with rapid stride, 

His onward course doth trudge it, 
May gentle friends, with joyous pride. 

Throng round our fairy " Budget." 



72 STRAY LEAVES FROM A LARKER S LOG. 

AN AUTUMN PICTURE. 

Another ' ' beautiful picture 

To hang on memory's wall," 
Another bright memento 

To come at my spirit's call, 
Filling my soul with music — 

A sweet, but sad refrain, 
Like the robin's plaintiff melody 

Of mingled joy and pain. 

The peaceful calm of the Sabbath 

Filled all the dreamy air, 
And the glittering hues of October 

Waved pennons bright and fair, 
When a happy chance presented 

To join a friendly band 
And drive through the olden pathways 

Of my own dear native land. 

Adown the picturesque valley 

Where the Pemigewasset glides. 
Fringed with autumnal verdure, 

Mirrored beneath its tides, 
Skirting the " Squam's" bright lakelets, 

Whose placid waters lie 
Serenely, and calmly beautiful 

'Neath the blue October sky. 



AN AUTUMN PICTURE. 73 

Under the frowning shadow 

Of Prospect mountain gray, 
Where the sun's first rays betoken 

The dawn of the coming day ; 
While far in the hazy distance 

The monarch mountains stand, 
Like an army's pickets posted 

To guard enchanted land. 

So rode we on till the twilight 

Drew her dusky curtains o'er 
Where the smiling Winnipesaukee 

Laves Centre Harbor's shore. 
Enraptured with Nature's beauties, 

Impressed with her varied charms, 
We closed the autumnal Sabbath 

With a chorus from the Psalms. 

And this was the chorus that greeted the ear. 

With its sweetly melodious flow : 
Music that seraphs might listen to hear, 

"Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow." 
Echo caught up the refrain in its glory, 

Murmuring gently and low, 
Repeating again the wonderful story : 

*' Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow." 



74 STRAY LEAVES FROM A LARKER S LOG. 

VALENTINE. 

My dear Mrs. Miller, 

If my heart would be stiller 
Whenever I meet you abroad ! 

But it palpitates faster, 

And threatens disaster 
When parted by even a rod. 

My wife and your husband 

Have neither got sand 
To keep us from meeting each other 

In Armstrong's retreat. 

Or else on the street. 
Casting sheep's eyes from one to the tother. 

Now you may opine 

That this valentine 
Has merely the rashness of youth, 

But I do declare, 

And solemnly swear, 
That children and fools tell the truth. 

So all through the spring 

I will warble and sing, 
While still at the window you sit. 

And when I go by, 

Just wink at me sly, 
And never respond to me, "nit." 




HELEN. 



THE LOVERS RIDE. 75 

TO MY FAIR COUSIN SUSAN. 

Youth's rosy dreams their sunshine fling 

Around your childhood's home ; 
And loving hearts about you cling 

Where'er your footsteps roam. 
Enjoy them while you may, fair child, 

While yet your halcyon years, 
With hope's bright promises beguiled, 

Know naught of sorrow's tears. 
Oh, never on your sunny brow 

May grief's dark shadow fall, 
But every joy that charms you now. 

Embalmed on memory's wall, 
Hang like a pictured saint to shield 

Your footsteps where they roam. 
And life's temptations ever yield 

To thoughts of childhood's home. 



THE LOVERS' RIDE. 

'*As breezes of an autumn day. 
With voice inconstant, die away, 
But ever swell again as fast, 
When the ear deems its murmur past," 
So memories of some happy hour, 
Returning with resistless power. 
Illume the heart with visions bright, 
♦'To memory dear, though lost to sight." 



76 STRAY LEAVES FROM A LARKEr's LOG. 

And thus I turn from present care, 
To that October day, so fair, 
Whose sunny brightness, lingering, dwells 
Within my heart's devoted cells, 
A constantly recurring joy, 
A blissful hour, without alloy. 
Fair Helen, on that autumn day, 
How swiftly sped the hours away ; 
What pleasing sights the sylvan road 
From Beacon Hill to Brookline showed ! 
Through Longwood's quiet shades we passed, 
Where stately trees their shadows cast 
On velvet lawns, whose emerald green 
Heightened the richness of the scene, 
While autumn leaves, of varied hue, 
Waved 'neath the sky's unclouded blue. 
Round Chestnut hill our way we sped, 
Whose reservoir, with arms outspread. 
Circles the waves, whose mirrored face 
Reflected Nature's autumn grace, 
Where hue of leaf, and tree, and flower, 
Responded with a magic power. 
Thus on through many a winding way. 
With slackened speed we rode that day, 
Through Heath street shades, Jamaica Plain, 
Through Newton's broad and fair domain. 
Where many a lovely green recess 
Seemed *' wooing to its calm caress " 
The sunshine of that perfect day 
Amid its leaves and flowers to play ; 



TO THE STAG CLUB. 77 

Thus o'er that scene my memory dwells 
Though winter breezes sweep the dells, 
And autumn leaves lie strewn around — 
"The year's dead honors on the ground." 
Again in fancy's dream I trace 
The sweet expression of that face, 
Which, free from guile and every art, 
Has stamped its beauty on my heart, — 
A face to be forgotten, never, 
Its loveliness " a joy forever." 

December, 1882. 



TO THE STAG CLUB. 

With Deep Regret at Declining the Honor of 
Membership. 

When Adam from Eden was banished, 

It was all on account of his Eve, 
And my visioned stag-outing has vanished 

From the very same cause, I perceive. 
O woman, the source of our pleasure, 

How often you cause us to grieve ! 
But a man must give up in a measure 

To the foibles and whims of his Eve. 
No serpent has entered the garden, 

With fruit that was tempting and nice, 
But the stags have infested my Eden 

With a far more enticing device. 
This time it's an Adam that 's tempted, 

But not by a woman, you see. 



7 8 STRAY LEAVES FROM A LARKER'S LOG. 

For the female herein is exempted, 

And the stag offers fruit from the tree. 
Unlike Mother Eve in the garden, 

Who helped the old Serpent along, 
Comparing the stags — I beg pardon — 

To his snakeship, is certainly wrong. 
My Eve insists upon holding 

Me fast in the Eden of home. 
To aid her in forming and molding 

The twigs which are yet in their bloom. 
For something is said in the Bible 

In regard to the turn of the mind. 
And the bend of the twig is so liable 

To show where the tree is inclined ! 
And while I will think of you kindly. 

And grieve such a chance to resign, 
I might — if I stuck to it blindly — 

Hereafter have cause to repine. 
So waiving my chance in the Outing, 

And the honor conferred by your Club, 
I relinquish my visions of trouting, 

And turn to my homelier grub. 
Yet a toast to the Stag Club I '11 offer. 

And drink to the health of each man : 
" May the heavens above ever proffer 

The sunniest skies that they can ; 
May your Outing bring happiness, surely, 

And health from the lakes and the crags, 
While virtue sits smiling demurely, 

A counterpart still of the Stags." 



MY BOYS. 79 

MY BOYS. 

" The father's voice, the mother's prayer, 
Though called from earth away, 
With music rising from the dead. 
Their spirits yet shall sway." 

When the cares of the day and its labors are done, 

Like the pilgrim to Mecca, I turn to my home. 

There, two happy faces await my return. 

And two loving hearts that in constancy burn. 

My dear little boys in their frolic and glee. 

With their true loving hearts are waiting for me. 

And forgetting the cares and the toils of the day, 

I'm contented and happy to share in their play. 

And then when the hours of pleasure are sped, 

And the dear little urchins are cuddled in bed, 

"Now I lay me" comes rippling in thoughtless delight. 

Then caressing, and kissing, and loving " Good-night." 

But a vision still haunts me of days that will come 

When no childish voices will welcome me home, 

When the merry, sweet laughter no more will ring out 

To gladden my ear with its answering shout, 

When no bedtime will find me awaiting to hear 

The child prayer that now is so sweet to my ear. 

" Now I lay me" will be but an echo that's past. 

As the lingering substance its shadow will cast. 

Old time, with his wings, is wafting them on. 
And childhood full soon with its joys will be gone. 



8o STRAY LEAVES FROM A LARKER'S LOG. 

And the boy, on his visions of manhood now bent, 

No longer with toys and with frolic content, 

Will turn him to pleasures outside of his home, 

With other companions untrammeled to roam. 

Then I think of the pitfalls their path will beset. 

Of temptations and trials in life to be met ; 

Oh ! then if my sheltering arms could extend, 

And the light of their home its influence lend, 

To rescue their souls from sorrow and sin 

Is all that I hope for, — my Heaven to win. 

God grant that my years are prolonged upon earth 

Until wisdom they find and establish its worth. 

And ever their loving hearts turn as they roam, 

With childhood's pure faith to the light of their home. 



TO MY FRIEND ON HIS FIFTIETH ANNIVER- 
SARY. 

A trite old saying, this I have in mind, 
" A fellow-feeling makes us wondrous kind'' ; 
And as my twoscore years and ten have flown, 
I gladly welcome birthday of your own, 
That brings to both alike, a meaning vast, 
That youth, as years are numbered, now is past; 
And middle age, with riper judgment grown. 
Controls our reason and usurps the throne. 
Our backward glances o'er the scenes of youth. 
Of folly's teachings give us many a proof; 



4^- 




" So when from the chair lie stepped at lens 
He stood with his artless smile, 

Like Samson shorn of his locks of strength 
By Delilah's treacherous wile." 



CHILDHOOD S CHARMS. I 

And yet in faithful memory's cells we find 

Past joys unnumbered that delight the mind, 

And cause our hearts with sorrow to regret 

" That wave with which but once life's sands are wet." 

But not for us to mourn our follies past, 

Or grieve that youth's enchantments cannot last, 

Although they both will shade and sunshine lend, 

Till life's last mile-stone marks our journey's end. 

Still may our hearts their youthful tinge retain, 

And gild with joy the years that yet remain ; 

And happiness and peace with us abide, 

As down life's smooth declivity we glide. 

For many a year our friendship tried and true. 

Has been a joy to me, — the same, I hope, to you. 

Whate'er the future has for me in store. 

May this survive till my short life is o'er. 

Roll on, ye years, and bring your joy or pain, 

So ye but leave unbroken friendship's chain. 

When that ye sever, life has lost its charm, 

And left no joy its sorrow to disarm. 



CHILDHOOD'S CHARMS. 

I placed my boy in the barber's chair. 
To be shorn of his ringlets gay ; 

And soon the wealth of his golden hair 
On the floor in a circle lay. 



82 STRAY LEAVES FROM A LARKER'S LOG. 

'T was a trifling thing of daily life, 
And to many unworth a thought — 

Too small a theme, 'mid the toil and strife, 
Of this world's changing lot. 

But the ringing cut of the cruel shears 
To my heart-strings caused a pang, 

For they changed the child of my hopes and fears 
With the scornful tune they sang. 

My thoughts were bent on the little cap, 
And the curls that round it twined, 

Like golden clasps with which to trap 
The sunbeam and the wind. 

No more shall I see those flying curls, 

As my homeward steps I wend ; 
Another stage of his life unfurls, 

Where youth and childhood blend. 

So when from the chair he stepped at length, 

He stood, with his artless smile, 
Like Samson shorn of his locks of strength 

By Delilah's treacherous wile. 

Thus, one by one, will vanish away 

The charms of his childish life. 
And each bring nearer his manhood's day. 

With its scenes of toil and strife. 



A THOUGHT. 83 

God grant that my lease of life may last, 
Through his changing years of youth ; 

Till the danger rapids of life are passed, 
And a Samson stands in truth. 



A THOUGHT. 

I heard the chime of the midnight bell 

As eighteen-ninety-three 
Passed, Avith the ringing of its knell, 

Into Eternity. 
Silent and sad the snow-clad earth 

Listened the mournful sound 
A moment, and the New Year's birth 

Was heralded around. 
And such is life, as one by one 

We pass from off the stage. 
The knell that marks a setting sun 

Proclaims a new-born age. 



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